Page 15 of Boats, Moats, & Root Beer Floats

“Another bowl please. In a takeout bag,” I added counting out coins and hoping I got the currency right.

The lady across the counter chattered at me. I stared, trying to follow along, nodded a few times and shook my head.

“Nope. Missed the lot. Is this enough?”

Sighing, she counted out my proffered coins. She pushed three back, and spoke slowly. “You’re staying up at the castle? With the odd man? Are you safe up there?”

I smiled, picking everything out through her brogue this time. “Yes, he’s lovely. Well, I mean he’s a bit forward, but he— he’s going to keep to himself from now on,” I said firmly to stop gabbling. “Do you know about the ghost that has a tinned fish fetish?”

The woman cocked her head to one side, pale curls whispering into her lined face. She didn’t push them back. “Ohh, that ghost. He’s been around for a long time. Never did find out who it’s meant to be. But it did cause a stir twenty, no thirty years ago. Lot of scientists came up, tried to ‘catch’ the wee thing. Never saw it. No other evidence since. If you do see it, tell them where you’re from. Send them back to us. Benita would like some extras to stay at that place. Hard enough to get vacationers, isn’t that what you call them?” She smiled kindly as she ladled up my extra bowl of hotpot for Covin.

“You mean Betty, dear,” one of the waitresses called.

“Bettina,” I frowned, thinking of the phone call with the holiday lady I had on the day I arrived. Yesterday? The day before? I couldn’t keep track already. The number of steps in the castle overran my quota for the day, clearly. “And the science expo caused a stir, huh? The town must have liked that.”

I imagined a string of Nessie-like hunters filling the ferry that crossed the loch in order to find Not-Polty and the idea of exposing him—excuse me Dustman,them, until proven otherwise didn’t sit well in my stomach. The idea of Polty’s space being invaded, cameras set up to capture the tin-towers and rattles…that part wasn’t quite so cute at all.

“Oh yes, love,” the woman chattered on. “The streets were full of those little cars they brought over and all their fancy equipment. Found nothing of course. No more than the monsterthey think lives in the loch. Though we all know better, don’t we, dearest?” This second endearment was aimed at the cook she aimed a hip bump at as he passed by. The man’s graying head turned bright red as he shuffled past her, mumbling something incoherent in Gaelic.

Their lyrical, if guttural language filled the small shop. I collected my bagged food, grateful for the four rolls she popped in on top, and waved my way out the door.

The walk back to the castle wasn’t half as bitter nor strained as last time. Laden as my arms were, my bags weren’t half as heavy or cumbersome as my art supplies and an ancient suitcase.

The gray clouds cleared leaving the pale white sky a pretty cornflower blue I ached to paint. Suddenly my feet moved that much faster. I danced up the steps to the castle door, shoving my shoulder into its hard surface when it jammed, refusing to be deterred by its stubborn facade once more.

“Covin?” I yelled.

My voice echoed along the corridor though I knew if he was up in his tower, reading or whatever he did, he would never hear me.

Heading into the kitchen I placed my supplies on the counter, unpacking the perishables into the refrigerator and left the rest in their bags. Then I wound my way back to my room, grabbed my art bag that thankfully remained intact while my suitcase did not—a challenge to face after Christmas—and headed for a wing of the castle I hadn’t explored yet.

Four days counting traveling to date without painting anything—even something shitty—during a muse finding vacation was far too long. At this point I’d probably paint Covin if he stood still long enough. With dust of course.

No, I was off to locate my muse.

Who knew? It might even be Polty.

CHAPTER SIX

COVIN

I still hated the cow. Not as much as I had the day before, mind, but our relationship would never be strong. Not enough for me to both milk the creature and keep the outcome, at any rate. After three overturned buckets I gave it up as a bad job, petted the then docile beast and washed my hands, literally.

Actually I showered a second time as I had milk in places milk should never be. Then I sat and studied at the desk I’d found in my first lone week at Witnot. My research through the family tomes lasted a full half a day before a small stack of tinned salmon that I swore I had not brought with me rattled from an adjusted windowsill in a stack that acted like a doorbell.

I turned in my seat, and addressed the tinned fish. “So it was you who woke me this morning, was it?”

The tins sat quietly, though one moved an inch off kilter.

A smirk grew on my face and faded just as fast. “Been stuck here a while, haven’t you?”

The tin moved back. I took that as a positive.

“Limited to this piece of land?”

The tin shifted again.

“And may I have the pleasure of your name, ma’am?”

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